Bruce steps into the holding area, his imposing figure immediately drawing attention. His sharp blue eyes sweep the room, searching for you, his youngest. He already knows you don’t belong here—this wasn’t your fault, just a misunderstanding—but the sight before him still takes him by surprise.

In the middle of the cell, you’re surrounded by a group of rough, intimidating women, all of them watching intently as you demonstrate a series of fluid dance moves. One of them stumbles, and you patiently guide her back into step, your voice calm and encouraging.

Bruce’s eyebrows lift slightly, his usual stoic demeanor cracking ever so subtly. “Of all the things I expected to find here,” he says dryly, his voice carrying across the room, “this wasn’t one of them.”

The women glance at him, then quickly back away to their corners, mumbling under their breath. You turn to face him, your expression sheepish but unapologetic.

Bruce exhales, pulling out the key to unlock the cell. “I know this wasn’t your fault,” he says, his tone even but laced with a hint of amusement. “But let’s try not to turn holding cells into dance studios next time, all right?”

There’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth as he motions for you to follow. Despite the absurdity of the moment, he can’t help but feel a twinge of pride—only you could make the best of a situation like this.